


By Coincidence, Truly Yours

by twilightshadow



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Sort of reincarnation AU, University AU, epistolery, something of a love letter to London, tags to be updated as I go, they're all international students in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightshadow/pseuds/twilightshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While 14 year old Grantaire cleans out his late grandmother's attic, he stumbles accross a series of desperate love letters written in 1831 by somebody signed only 'R'</p><p>Four years later, Enjolras, preparing to leave for university in London, is sent a bundle of 19th century letters from a person named 'E' </p><p>By coincidence, the two meet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Juin 14 th 1831_

_My dearest E,_

_You will never receive this, but I feel I must write it, if only for my own validation._

_You are fire. You are passion and beauty incarnate. You are their sun, and mine. I would spend my last breath watching you speak. I would give my last breath to have you see me in return._

_You have captured me. I belong to you as you belong to Patria, to France, to you revolution. I know I can never stand with them in your eyes, simply a humble artist, Hephaestus to your Aphrodite. I know what they say of you. Do you know there are those who call you Apollo?_

_When your revolution comes, I will stand with you. Though I do not, cannot believe in this, I believe in you._

_Simply, your_

_R_

**Paris, August 2007**

                Three days after the funeral, Jean Grantaire, known to his friends as R, volunteers to clean out his grandmother’s attic, mostly because he’s the only poor sod stupid enough.

                The dust is just magnificent. Héléne Grantaire had been one of those old ladies who kept _everything_ , both her own stuff and her late husband’s, in piles and piles of packing cases arranged haphazardly (and in some places just bloody dangerously) in the tiny attic of her Paris home, stuffy with the last heat of summer. Grantaire sneezes as he shifts one case to the side. A few mice scuttle out from behind the wall and away into the mess.

                “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, eyes watering. “There isn’t anything up here worth this shit.”

                He pulls open the clasps and flips up the lid, releasing a second cloud of dust flavoured sweetly with vanillin. He is greeted with bundles of old, yellowing paper that look like old letters.

_Note to self – revise previous opinion._

“Oh, wow.”       

                Tenderly, he lifts a bundle out, tied with a faded ribbon. The dates on the top put at them as being written during World War II. He recognises his grandmother’s sloping copperplate handwriting and realises she must have written them to his grandfather during the Occupation.

                His grandmother speaks of her mother’s illness, and of the latest fashions and fads, and of German soldiers in the streets who would blow kisses to them. There are none left of his grandfathers’, an underground fighter in the Résistance. His grandmother had told him stories when he was a child, of how she had had to burn all his correspondence, if she received any at all.

“It was worth it in the end,” she had said.

Digging deeper, he finds more, from his great aunt to his grandfather, from his great grandmother and father, on both sides. Grantaire leafs through some of them, unable to resist the silky softness of old paper. He’s a painter rather than a writer, but there’s something special in reading words written by people long dead and forgotten, like they’ve left part of themselves behind as a gift for the future.

Finally at the bottom is a much older bundle, soft and worn and almost fragile to the touch. These are written in a far more archaic hand than the early 30s and 40s.

Grantaire peers closely at them.

“ _Mon…cher…E…_ ”

He sits cross-legged on the dusty floor, uncaring of his paint-stained jeans.

French is R’s first language, though he’s lived all his life in London, but reading this bundle isn’t easy. The ink has faded and the paper is crumpled and stained with something too red to be blood – wine, perhaps. The letters stagger and sway across the parchment.

_My dearest E,_

_You will never receive this…_

_-x-_

_Juillet 16 th 1831_

_Dear R_

_I cannot send you this, I know, but I must write it. You are sending me quite mad._

_The revolution must happen. The people must be free from the tyranny of monarchy. These are my truths, yet now there is another. My desire for you. Your cynical tongue. Your absinthe-laced breath. Your fluidity, even in inebriation. You are, to me, beautiful._

_What have you done to me, Dionysus? Have you made me one of your satyrs by some lost art of witchcraft?_

_I cannot both fight for freedom and fight for your love. I can afford no distractions in my cause, yet I cannot shake this loose. Whatever am I to do, my love?_

_Your ever faithful,_

_E_

 

**Four years later**

**London, June 2011**

                “ _Alex! J’ai un pacquet pour toi!_ ”

                “It’s fucking _Alexandre_ …” the boy in question grumbles, but he drags his Doc Martens off the table and clumps downstairs as lightly as he can.

                His younger sister Amélie, only seven, holds out the brown envelope. “Haven’t peeked, promise,” she says in French.

                “I should hope not,” her brother replies in the same language. “And don’t wake _Maman_ by being loud, _petite oie_. You know we’re supposed to be practising English.”

“English is boring. I don’t see why you have to go to university in London anyway.”

Alexandre Enjolras smiles at her fondly. He sits at the bottom of the stairs and turns to package over. It doesn’t feel very bulky, but the envelope is padded so it’s difficult to tell. It’s a French stamp on the envelope though.

                Amélie sits beside him. “Who’s it from?”

                “Give me half a chance to open it.” Very carefully he peels back the flap and pulls out a bundle of papers wrapped in tissue. A bundle of very old papers, wrapped with a black ribbon.

                Enjolras turns them over and unwraps them, very carefully. “What the hell…?”

                It’s a bundle of old letters. Very old letters, soft with age and stained in places with ink and candlewax. The handwriting is odd too, almost the same as the type taught in schools in Paris, but fair less easy to read.

                “Oh, there’s a letter here as well.” Amélie picks it off the floor. “It’s from Uncle Pontmercy.”

                “Let me see…”

                _“Je voudrais lire!”_

_“C’est mon pacquet, petite oie, donne-le moi!”_

                Amélie pouts, but hands it over.

 

_For Alexandre Enjolras,_

_Firstly, allow me to wish you every success in your new life in London. You may find the English a little strange but I am told there’s no real harm in them. University College has a fine European Politics course, I trust you will enjoy it._

_I feel honour bound to tell you my son is deeply envious of this opportunity. Use it well. He may be following you in a few years, God help my bank account._

_Secondly, the contents of this packet are something I feel you should have. These letters have been in my family for over two hundred years. I thought with your interest in the period they were written in they might be of some interest to you in your studies, if not in your leisure time._

_The content of them is a bit personal, but I find them fascinating, as did my father. None of the parties mentioned have ever been traced. We don’t know who they are or where they were from, nothing but what is written. Despite this, I hope you find them insightful._

_My warmest regards to your mother, father, and sister. We will see all of you for Christmas – Marie will brook no opposition._

_Yours, as ever_

_Gerard Pontmercy_

 

                “Are they love letters?” asks Amélie once Enjolras has finished reading the letter out.

                “I don’t know. Shall we have a look?”

                He gently unties the ribbon, which is newer than the papers, probably a replacement for the original. The ink has faded, but the letters are still legible. They’re written in old fashioned French.

_Dear R,_

_I cannot send you this, but I must write it…_

-x-         


	2. A Meeting, of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is totally not creeping on the hot blonde activist on campus. 
> 
> Nope. Absolutely not. Lies and slander.
> 
> (Okay, maybe he is a bit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short A/N: I'm not bullshitting degrees here, all the course that the Amis study are offered by UCL. I'm not at UCL, so there will be not specifics (and I am bullshitting a module called Renaissance Art, but it might exist, I just don't know). Anyway, this is more about the people than the degrees. Nevertheless, do enjoy xxx

_Septembre 1er 1831_

_My dearest E_

_You were quite spectacular today. The sun shone in a Parisian square despite the rain as you thrust your papers skywards._

_I confess to being non-apologetic about arguing with you. Do you not see, that the more counter-arguments I throw at you, the people love you all the more? They care nothing for my cynical ramblings. I am simply the winecask, as Bossuet so eloquently puts it. They care a great deal more for your winged faith._

_I wish that I could see the world from your lofty heights. Perhaps there is a quality to these humans that I cannot see, here on the ground._

_I believe in you. I love you._

_Yours eternally,_

_R_

**14 th October 2011**

The letters have been well thumbed over the four years since Grantaire found them in his grandmother’s attic trunk.

As far as he knows, none of his family knows they exist. They sit in a small box on his desk at home in his room. He knows better than to cart 200 year old letters around with him.

At the moment, the typed copies he’s made are bouncing in his backpack as he takes the stairs up from the tube station two at a time, swipes his Oystercard and exists into the crisp London air.

It’s October, and the autumn semester is in full swing. London is geared up for Hallowe’en, the streets full of orange and gold, the shop windows full of tacky spiderwebs and stereotyped witches. Grantaire loves it.

For once, today is a good day. The sun it out, the air has a refreshing bite and the Anglo-French young man whistles between his teeth as he trips down the avenue towards campus.

The voice at the back of his mind that never quite shuts up asks him why he’s so cheerful, because it has nothing to do with the hair-of-the-dog vodka shot that chased down his bacon and egg breakfast (he hadn’t meant to get that drunk last night, but one thing led to another, as usual). A second, more teasing voice that sounds like his friend Jehan whispers that it’s Thursday and therefore He will be on campus at the same time.

Grantaire is so lost in thought that he doesn’t realise he’s made it onto campus until a shout of his name rouses him and a thin ginger form drapes itself across him back.

“Morning, Jehan…”

“Good morning, my gorgeous R, and how are we?”

There was a thinly veiled ‘how drunk are we’ underneath the statement but Grantaire refuses to rise to the bait.

“Bloody spectacular. What gorgeous weather we’re having. Christ, Jehan, I’ve gone native.”

“That’s because you are native, _mon ami._ ”

“Okay, smart-arse, not all of us were born in the upper-class end of Paris,” Grantaire retorts in French.

“You wish.” Jehan says in the same language, and jumps lithely off his back. “Come on, it’s Renaissance first and you know how much O’Connell loves chewing out late-comers.”

“You think I haven’t noticed? We’re practically on first-name terms.”

Jehan giggles and leads the way towards their building.

-x-

They’re on time – just about – and take their usual seat at the back. Jehan dons a pair of square specs and Grantaire tugs his notebook out of his bag. He’s tempted for a second to duck under the table and take a short swig from his hip-flask, but he can’t, not in Renaissance Art. Jehan moved from Paris two months before the semester started and often can’t keep up with fast paced, lecturer English yet. Grantaire takes his notes in French and shares them with him.

Unfortunately, this is the only module they share. Jehan is studying European Language, Culture and Society, only taking this module as part of his first year free choice modules. Jehan is a genius, but he hates struggling with the language barrier. Grantaire gives him a hand translating PowerPoint slides and lecture handouts and in return Jehan sits for some of his assignment paintings. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Grantaire doesn’t know how he managed before Jean Prouvaire sauntered into his life and offered him a daisy because he looked sad, but he’s damn glad he did.

As R is rudely wrenched from his musing by Professor O’Connell calling the babbling lecture hall to attention, he thinks of the letters in his bag, with Jehan’s last name scrawled on one of them and wonders at the irony of co-incidence.

-x-

                With Westminster and Big Ben around the proverbial corner from campus and Hyde Park just two tube stop away, activism and activist societies on campus are as popular as they are anywhere with a large concentration of students.

Grantaire does not care a wink for this. He cares a great deal, however, for one of its most prolific members.

Not that he knows a lot about him, only that He is another first – year student, course unknown. He is blonde, has a penchant for the colour red and Doc Marten boots, gets off to social justice and is, in Grantaire’s mind, the love of his life.

The only problem is, “He” is all Grantaire knows him as.

He first saw the boy at an event for international students that Grantaire felt obliged to go to because of his roots, even though he was born and raised in central London. Blondie was the other side of the room, talking animatedly with another student.

Three days later, he walked past the Humanities department building and saw him again, standing on a railing masquerading as a soapbox (and holding a lamppost for balance), talking angrily at the crowds walking past about something Grantaire has long forgotten about. A small group of people had gathered around him.

Grantaire doesn’t believe in love at first sight, not usually, but on this occasion he’s willing to make an exception.

R stuffs one of his gloves into his pocket, the better to grip the takeaway coffee cup. The wind has picked up, though the sky remains clear and fresh.

The protest today is organised – student fees again, the e-mail had come around three days previously – and there are more people milling outside the Student Union building listening to Him than usual. R mills at the back watching the gorgeous blonde wield a megaphone to the sky like a standard, or maybe a sword. He has the sort of face Grantaire would paint in oils; bold, brash colours and definite strokes. Even when it’s passive, which is rarely, it’s a sight to behold. If a classic Bernini sculpture had come to life, it would look like him.

A phrase from one of his letters springs to mind.

_“…the sun shone in a Parisian square despite the rain as you thrust your papers skyward.”_

Truth is, at least one of those letters could have been written about the boy in front of him. The man the mysterious “R” ( _and isn’t that a scary piece of irony_ ) writes to seems to have had the same sort of restless passion, brimming over. His passion does the same thing. It’s almost too much for his mortal body.

R doesn’t really listen to the words any more, just the poetry of them. He’s stood around at enough of these demonstrations to know that the vast majority of what the blond talks about doing is bollocks and unobtainable, so he’s content to just listen.

“Hey, do you want a flyer?”

 R almost jumps out of his skin. A boy his age with dark waves of hair and a mischievous smile stands there.

“Sorry,” he continues in an Irish lilt. “I’ve just seen you standing around at a lot of these things and I wondered if you might be interested in coming to our meetings as well.”

Grantaire glances down at the flyer. “Friends of the ABC,” he muses. “Funny name for a bunch of activists.”

The Irish boy laughs. “Our president is French. It’s a pun – ABC sounds like _Abaissé_ which is the French - ”

“For Abased, I know. French is my first language.”

The other boy lit up. “Ha! Oh, you have to come now! We have a disproportionate number of international students, but we’re all good people. Very dedicated. Sexism on campus, racism, homophobia, you name the injustice, we cover it.”

Grantaire chuckles. “ _Desoleé, mon ami,_ not really my thing. I’ll give this to my friend though, he’d find it interesting.”

“We meet up every Friday at seven at the Musain. It’s about fifteen minutes down the road from the Union. Sure you don’t want to come? Enjolras always appreciates a new face or two.”

“Who?”

He turns and points up at the blonde standing on a table. “Blond guy over there shouting a lot. Alexandre Enjolras.”

Grantaire thinks his brain might short circuit on the spot. He has a name. _Alexandre Enjolras._

The other brunet fortunately does not seem to have noticed his momentary freeze.

“I’ll think about it,” he says guardedly.

The Irish boy claps him on the back. “Excellent plan. I’m Paddy Courfeyrac, by the way.”

“Jean Grantaire. See you around, Paddy.”

“Just Courfeyrac will, do, I’m not a leprechaun.”

R laughs. “Whatever. _Au revoir._ ” He beats a hasty retreat.

At a safe distance he glances back. He – no, _Alexandre_ is still talking.

"Alexandre Enjolras,” he whispers to himself. Oh yes. Today is a very good day.

-x-

Courfeyrac watches Grantaire walk away.

 "What are you smirking at?” asks a musical voice from over his shoulder.

 Courfeyrac turns. “Ferre, you owe me a tenner.”

 "Why do I owe you a tenner?”

 "I told you green beanie was only here because he wanted into Enjolras’ pants. I told him about the Amis, and he brushed me off. Told him Enjolras was the President and he said he’d think about it.”

  "Playing matchmaker again?”

  "Admit I was right.”

  "I'm admitting nothing and you are supposed to be flyering.”

  Courfeyrac pokes his tongue out at the other boy. “Spoilsport.”

-x-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan in glasses needs to be a thing.


	3. The Musain: Part 1- Chapeau Vert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are meetings, green hats, and very heavy textbooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the wait, computer had a spazz attack and I pretty much lost the whole damn thing. Not Amused. 
> 
> I'd like to say here, that if Enjolras seems a bit 'ish' in this chapter, I'm trying to deal with the mild (or not-so-mild) culture shock that a lot of international students face when they come to this country for the first time. Not entirely sure how well I've done, so do forgive me, and accept I have done my level best.
> 
> Please, do enjoy. xxx

_1er Septembre 1831_

_My R,_

_I fail to see how you gainsaying everything I stand for helps our cause in any way. You were fortunate that today was not a complete disaster, or my words would have been harsher._

_Having said this, I do regret some of my words. You do not deserve the title ‘useless,’ or ‘good-for-nothing fool.’ You are good, my love. I see so much good in you. So much potential. Seeing you waste it on cynicism and drunkenness is physically painful to me._

_I feel better for having that off my chest. For some unfathomable reason it makes more sense on the paper._

_What are you, you unearthly creature? You have become a part of me, burrowed beneath my skin and taken up residence somewhere in the region of my breastbone._

_I cannot love you, and yet I do. I cannot keep writing these useless letters to languor away in my desk drawers, yet I have no other confidant then the impartial paper, and my pen and ink._

_I wish I could make you see how and why I love you as I do. That you could see yourself clearly._

_Your ever faithful,_

_E_

 

**14 th October 2011**

**London, England**

Enjolras is an activist, through and through, He eats, sleeps and breathes social change. His father calls it a waste of effort and often tells his son to “get with the program.” Enjolras, stubborn as ever, refuses to listen.

He’s hoping to find some like-minded people on campus, but so far everyone he’s spoken to has been too interested in their alcohol stashes than what he has to say.

His lucky stroke had come one day in the library, barrelling out of the European Politics section and straight into a bespectacled young man carrying a lot of very heavy textbooks.

 _“Merde!”_ he exclaims without thinking, and then remembers (again) that he isn’t in Paris any more, and switches to English with some difficulty. “I…I am sorry. Let me help you with those…”

He kneels down and hefts one up in his hands. “ _Sacré bleu,_ that is heavy…”

“You don’t even have to cart them around,” says the other student, readjusting his glasses.

“I really am sorry.”

“It was an accident, it’s fine. I’m Tony – Anthony Combeferre, by the way. Natural Sciences.”

“Alexandre Enjolras. European Culture and Politics.”

“Enjolras…are you French?”

“ _Oui_ …sorry, yes.”

“It’s fine. My paternal grandmother was French Canadian.”

“Really?”

“Really, hence the funny last name. My parents are terrible linguists though, so my French is a bit rusty.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “You do not need to worry about that. I have to practice my English more anyway. _Maman_ wants us – my little sister and me - to sound like natives. _Papa_ doesn’t speak a word, so it annoys him. I…do not mind that it annoys him. You should speak English with me anyway.”

 Tony laughs. “Fair enough. May I ask – it’s day three of Fresher’s Week. Not that I’m not extremely happy that I’m not the only person sad enough to be in the library during Fresher’s Week - ”

“Sad?”

“Sorry, it’s a turn of phrase. It means somebody who’s…not very cool, in teenage language.”

“That is not very nice.”

“It’s a turn of phrase, like I said. Where was I? Oh yes. Any particular reason you’re joined the small bunch of over-eager students working during the first week of term?”

Enjolras has to think a little about what he’s saying, but he manages to get the idea. “I am a politics student. I am also an activist. I want to…get ahead, I think that’s the phrase.”

“That’s the phrase. What sort of activist?”

“Anything. Everything. There is so much injustice in the world. I believe I am lucky to have been born into money, so I believe I have the means and an obligation to make as much of it right as I can.”

His new friend looks thoughtful.

“You know you’ll never manage to change the world by yourself, don’t you?”

Enjolras puffs up angrily. “If you are about to suggest I should not try - ”

“I am about to suggest nothing of the kind. You’ll need people on your side. A team, if you like. Saving the world isn’t a one-man job.”

Enjolras is confused. “Then what are you saying?”

“Don’t go anywhere near the politics club, for a start, it’s more of a debating society for Conservatives – that’s the British equivalent of the Republicans.”

“Yes, I know that, I’m not completely stupid.” Tony holds up his hands in apology. Enjolras nods and continues. “I was thinking of starting my own group.”

“Not a bad idea.” He smiles. “Consider me your faithful lieutenant.”

Enjolras blinks. And blinks again. “You…you want to help?”

“I want to make the world a good place to live in. I don’t think it is right now, and it should be.”

Enjolras smiles. “I think you and I will become very good friends…Tony.”

“Please, Alexandre, just call me Combeferre. Much nicer name.”

“Then you must call me Enjolras. It’s only fair.”

Tony – Combeferre – laughs. “And fair enough. _Enjolras._ ”

-x-

Enjolras has now been living on University College London campus for two months, and has learnt several things.

One: dropping his first name has made him instantly more memorable.

Two: Some students will rebel to anything, given the right words.

Three: Green beanies are the bane of his existence.

He doesn’t quite know why he keeps looking for that brunet in the crowd, but his eyes seem to be drawn to every single bloody splash of green on a person.

“Looking for _Chapeau Vert_ again?” asks the steady voice of his best friend.

“No,” he replies, far too quickly. ( _I do not have the time for a ridiculous infatuation_ ).

Combeferre sighs. “Of course not. It’s almost time, you ready?”

“Ready and waiting. As long as Courfeyrac remembered to put the new batteries in the megaphone.”

“I personally supervised it, don’t worry.”

Enjolras chuckles. “That was a wise move. Where are Joly and Bossuet?”

“They got roped into flyering by Courfeyrac.”

The French boy checks his watch. “Right. What’s the phrase Courfeyrac’s always using? ‘Let’s get this show on the road’?”

Combeferre laughs. “Right. Go on up, your adoring crowd want you.”

Enjolras flushes at that.

Despite his earlier words, he cannot help scanning the crowd for a flash of a green knitted beanie. He catches sight of a scarf, some skinny jeans and a pair of gloves, but no. He pretends he isn’t disappointed.

He also pretends not to notice when, about halfway into his discourse, a green beanie appears right at the back of the crowd.

-x-

At one of his first impromptu speeches, there had been a boy with wild, dark hair passing on the pavement. He never knew what made him look up at the precise moment he was passing by, but there he was, curls tangling out from under his green knitted beanie. Not a conventionally handsome face, but there was something about him that the blond could not put his finger on.

 _“Unearthly creature.”_ A phrase E had written about R in one of his letters. Enjolras thinks it applies here, for certain. _“Part of me…burrowed beneath my skin.”_

He doesn’t have time for this. He is an activist. Global revolution comes first, always.

But ever since, green hats have caught his eye.

-x-

**October 15 th 2011**

Friday nights are what every student lives for at some point or other. Time to celebrate another weeks work over and let their hair down for the weekend.

For Enjolras, it means it’s time for the weekly Friends of the ABC meeting.

“All I’m saying is, we are going to need a metric fuckton of signatures before the board will listen to us. Not enough people check the Union website regularly to make it worth putting it up there,” says Bossuet.

“We can always try some of the academic groups on Facebook,” says Courfeyrac. “I know - ”

“Half the campus, Courf, we know. Why don’t you start on Facebook and us lot will keep it up in the Union,” interjects Musichetta sensibly.

Enjolras listens to them chatter.

“Who was sorting flyering permits for town this weekend?” he asks. “Have we got them through yet?”

“E-mailed them to me yesterday,” says Bahorel. “Let’s not go overboard this time, eh Enj? You have no idea how much arse-licking I had to do to get them to agree to it.”

Courfeyrac chuckles. “Yes, I don’t think intimidating the general public was part of the plan.”

“Half of them go to university, they are affected by this issue as much as the rest of us. If they would just listen - ”

The bell above the door to the café and they all swivel around as one. Two students enter, wearing winter clothing and shaking out their umbrellas.

One is medium height and almost floats as he and his friend head towards the bar. The other is wearing –

Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat. It’s _Chapeau Vert_. 


	4. The Musian: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Enjolras finally speak face to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes before we begin:
> 
> Fuck me, this chapter felt like it took too long. I feel I should warn you - updates will be sporadic at best because I really want to finish this, BUT I have dissertation and project deadlines. 
> 
> For any anime fans on the sly reading this, there is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it SNK reference in here. All the cookies for you if you find it. 
> 
> Anyway, enough with the rambling. Enjoy xxx

“I still can’t believe I let you talk me into holding your hand for this.”

“Hush, R. You’re a good person at heart and you know it.”

“Blasphemy! I have a soul as dark as my hair.”

“And wonderful hair it is too.” Jehan dunks into the small foyer and pulls down his umbrella. “Just get in the goddamn café.”

R smiles at him indulgently and complies.

-x-

Grantaire likes the look of the Musain already. It’s homier than his usual drinking dens and the coffee is decently priced, since apparently they don’t break out the alcohol until nine.

Jehan leans beside him on the counter as they wait for their drinks. “Reckon that’s them?” he asks, side-eyeing the group in the far corner.

“Must be,” Grantaire replies.

“Hm. They look nice enough. Not much like activists though. Well...except the blonde one, perhaps.”

R smiles, and tries not to let his eyes be drawn to the blond in the centre of the group like he’s holding court, the soft yellow light of the café shining in his hair. He recognises the dark-hair of Courfeyrac as well, and there ends his knowledge of the group of students.

The Irishman is the first to jump up and greet them. “And top o’the mornin’ to you fellas too.”

“Wow. Brilliant way to dismantle a stereotype there,” Grantaire replies.

Courfeyrac laughs. “Don’t insult my roots. Is this the friend you mentioned?”

“Yep. Jean Prouvaire, meet…Paddy Courfeyrac, was it?”

“Just Courfeyrac will do. Nobody here uses their first names.”

Jehan furrows his brow. “Whyever not?”

He stumbles a little over the English, R notes, and files it away to ask about later.

“It’s the in-joke of the group that since neither Combeferre – he’s the one over there in the glasses - nor Enjolras will use their first names, none of us will use ours either.”

“So you all go by last names?”

“Yup.” Courfeyrac leads the two of them over the their table, scrounging up two more chairs along the way. “Bossuet prefers going by his nickname as it is.”

“You can’t pronounce the real one,” the bald, black youth says by way of explanation. “Hell, I can’t pronounce it and I was born with it.”

Introductions are swiftly made, student style – names and courses of study. Bossuet is a Law student – or is trying to be, since he has no head for directions and his lectures keep moving locations without warning. “Just my luck,” he says.

His best friend is Edward Joly, a medical student with a temperament that lives up to his last name and an unfortunate tendency towards hypochondria.

“Hence medicine,” he says. “I figured I might as well use it for something useful.”

“Joly, Bossuet and Combeferre are the only inner group members who originate from England,” says Courfeyrac. “The next closest is me. I’m a Belfast man, studying Law with Bossuet.”

Red-headed Marek Feuilly (whom Grantaire recognises from some of his nights out) is a Polish-French immigrant, and the only one who isn’t a university student. He works at a couple of bars on campus and goes to night classes in the city. Everything he has he’s worked for.

“Enjolras has a hero complex about him,” Bossuet remarks.

The blonde flushes. “I do not.”

Grantaire has to think about abandoned puppies to stop a flush rising to his face because _damn,_ embarrassed is a good look on him.

Nic Bahorel has Egyptian or maybe Syrian blood in him somewhere, and that’s all he can say. “Never knew my dad,” he says. “Probably a good thing.” He was born somewhere in Eastern Europe, but moved to England aged around three. Like his best friend Feuilly, he grew up in the foster system. He dropped out of a Law degree to study some random course called Security and Crime Science.

“Don’t ask,” he says.

“I have no intention of asking,” says Grantaire.

Musichetta introduces herself next. She’s full-blooded Italian and studying Computer Science. “And I honestly don’t know how you northern Europeans deal with all this rain,” she says.

“Our skin has a natural layer of rubber,” Combeferre replies smoothly.

“Well of course yours does, Mr Yorkshire.”

“Where is Yorkshire and what does it have to do with anything?” Jehan asks.

“He’s from Yorkshire. Yorkshire’s in the north of the country. The north of the country has a reputation for being cold and wet,” Bahorel explains.

“A reputation not fully deserved, may I add,” puts in Combeferre.

The last girl is quiet, but R can’t help feeling like she’s been watching everybody’s every move since they first entered the café. She has dusky skin and brown hair that straggles a little over her shoulders.

“I’m Éponine,” she says, with a twang to her voice. “I hang around with these losers on my nights off.”

“Don’t lie, ‘ponine, you love us,” says Feuilly. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“And, of course, we have our glorious and fearless leader, Alex Enjolras.”

Enjolras puts his head on the table.

“It’s fucking _Alexandre_ , Courf.”

“And it’s much easier than your last name. I’m Irish, have mercy on me.”

“Bring it up with my parents, then.” Enjolras raises his head and hold his hand out for the two newcomers to shake. “Can I apologise on behalf of my apparent friend?”

Jehan laughs, and shakes his hand. “No apology necessary. I’m friends with R here.”

Bright blue eyes turn to Grantaire’s face. _Don’t blush. Don’t blush, for the love of the God I’m not supposed to believe in…._

“R? What is that short for?”

Grantaire clears his throat. “Er…Okay, I’m Jean Grantaire, also known as R…the French among us can work out why.”

Combeferre chuckles. “Nice pun.”

“Well done.” Grantaire reaches out and clasps first his, then the blond’s hand. It’s warm, and smooth, not even slightly damp.

“And I’m Jean Prouvaire,” says Jehan, wonderful saviour that he is. “But you can call me Jehan.”

Courfeyrac nods. “Nice nickname.”

Jehan flushes pink. “ _Merci.”_

_“De rien.”_

Jehan flushes pinker. Grantaire is definitely going to have a conversation with him later.

“Grantaire and Jehan. Lovely to meet you.” Combeferre reaches over and shakes Jehan’s hand.

“Right then,” says Enjolras. “Before we start again I would like to ask R” (and he pronounces it like the proper French, Grantaire is so fucked) “…and Jehan one question. Your stance on student fee hikes. Go.”

Jehan jumps in instantly. “It’s a terrible idea. I haven’t lived here all that long but no matter where you come from, what part of society or which part of the world, I think you ought to have the option of higher education open to you, and affordable.”

Nods of assent go around the table. “Well said,” says someone.

“And you, R?”

_Merde alors, I may faint if he calls me that one more time._

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jehan give a tiny shake of his head, but what comes out is the truth anyway.

“I think if you’re trying to fight it, you’re in the path of an unstoppable force.”

It’s like time freezes for a second.

Feuilly mutters something in Polish under his breath – going by his expression, nothing good.

Enjolras’ eyes have turned to ice.

“Please elaborate.”

Grantaire mentally sticks his foot in his mouth and says ‘fuck it all.’

“I mean this is a debate that has been yelled about up and down the country by groups with louder voices than you. We put all our trust in one politician and, because he is a politician and therefore an arsehole, we got screwed over anyway. Not saying the hike is a good thing – the complete opposite, in fact – but The Powers That Be have made their minds up, and they aren’t going to change them. Not even for you, and your stunning face.”

_Merde. I said that last bit aloud, didn’t I? Merde merde merde._

Enjolras blinks.

“Ohhhh hell,” mutters someone that sounds like Joly.

“Okay. So, what you’re essentially saying is that, not only are we doing something fruitless, but that we shouldn’t even be trying in the first place.”

“I suppose I am, yes. I’m shuddering just at the thought of the amount of signatures that you’d need to make the board pay any attention to you.”

“So are we. The difference is that we choose to see barriers as obstacles to be climbed over, rather than an excuse for apathy.”

“Don’t start accusing me. You know nothing about me.”

“I don’t have to, by the sounds of things. Why are you here in the first place?”

“I’m being a good friend to Jehan.” The party in question shoots him a look of annoyance.

“So you aren’t actually interested in what we do?”

“I think it’s a noble cause, but ultimately useless. The system functions too well.”

“’All it takes for evil to succeed is a few good men to do nothing.’ There is evil in the world and it is up to those who can to do something about it. To be the voice for those unable, or too afraid, to speak.”

“Nice use of Edmund Burke, but he assumes that there are more good people in the world than there are. You, in turn, are assuming I am a good person. I say again – you know nothing about me.”

“If you weren’t a good person, you would have let Jehan come by himself.”

He’s got him there.

“I said I was being a good _friend_ , not good person. There is a subtle difference.”

“To be a good friend you must inherently have some good in you. So, why will you not stand up with us?”

“Because. Because I cannot believe in a lost cause. And because I have enough problems of my own that I cannot afford to care about everybody else’s as well. Solve one problem and a hundred more spring up in its place. The world is cruel. It is a fight you can’t win and that will destroy you in the process.”

He’s amazed nobody else is chipping in. He’s up against at least eight like-minded students, the one dissenting voice in a crowd, and yet they all seem to be watching the exchange with bated breath.

“If you don’t fight injustice it will always win. If we don’t fight it, we can never win. You cannot tell me that you enjoy living in a world where we allow women to be judged for having autonomy over what they wear and how they act, where a person can be turned down for a job because of a criminal record, where a child must suffer through school with an undiagnosed learning difficulty because their teachers are not educated enough to recognise the signs.”

“Of course I don’t. I’m a French-speaking teenager in London. I’ve had enough beret jokes to last me three lifetimes, but that is the status quo.”

“No, Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre, seemingly for no reason. The Irishman slumps in his seat. Grantaire shrugs off his confusion, and continues.

“Riddle me this: ‘The best defence against the world is a thorough knowledge of it.’ John Locke. I have seen the world, and I know the world, and exposing yourself to every arrow they throw at you out of some sense of moral obligation is both naïve and stupid, and it will get you seriously injured. Maybe not physically, but mentally. Spiritually.”

“ _Alors…vous croyez en rien?_ ”

Grantaire barely notices their shift into his mother tongue. “ _Oui. Rien._ ”

Enjolras looks irritated. And sad.

“Then what good are you to us?” he asks.

Grantaire thinks something inside him might break

“Are you okay for now, Jehan? I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.” He stands and pulls on his damp jacket. “Pleasure to meet you fine people, but I must be going.”

Not one person moves an inch as he gathers his bag and his umbrella and ducks out into the pouring rain again.

_I just royally fucked up. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck me. And fuck Enjolras and his fucking stupidly perfect face. Fuck._

At a loss, and with a desperate need for a drink, he rings a friend on his course who has more of an inclination than him towards wild partying.

“Hey, Matt. Where’s the party at tonight?”

-x-

“What the hell was his problem?” Enjolras asks Combeferre later, sat in the communal area of his student halls flat. Enjolras is still so incensed he’s reverted to his native French.

“You are the last person I would expect to be attacking someone for having an honest opinion,” Combeferre replies, kicking his feet up onto the table. Despite his claim to be ‘rusty’ he seems to be having very few problems keeping up. 

“I’m not attacking him for having an opinion, I’m attacking _his_ opinion. How does he expect to get anywhere with that sort of attitude? How does he expect to get anyone _else_ anywhere?”

“I forget that you to tend to think in terms of the collective. Well, with any luck, he won’t be back. I think that Jehan will be, though.”

“Yes, he seemed nice…” Enjolras muses. “I just don’t get how he – _chapeau vert_ – _Grantaire_ – can hold that kind of thinking. Can’t he see what’s going on in the world?”

“You think that about everyone, though, Enj. What’s so different about him?”

Enjolras frowns.

“I don’t know. Honestly.”

“Or are you just disappointed that your crush turned out to not be the perfect person you thought he was?”

Enjolras flushes. “It’s not a crush.”

“Your entire body tensed when he walked into the café.”

“…damn.”

Combeferre smiles. “Onto pleasanter topics…who’s on flyers for next Saturday?”

-x-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Courfeyrac. 
> 
> Oh R.
> 
> Oh Enj. 
> 
> I love Yorkshire, I've lived here three years and I never ever want to leave. But by heck can it rain up here. 
> 
> Combeferre is wisely stopping Courf singing HSM. Also all the cookies for you if you picked up on that.


	5. Not a Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some real arseholes in the world. Grantaire decides to do something about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have a legitimate reason for this chapter being late - intense laptop woes that have now been sorted. Thank god for having friends in IT that are willing to do favours in the hope of getting a date. 
> 
> Not really (but maybe). I don't know. It's midnight and I have a headache. 
> 
> I'm really not certain about this chapter, cause I think it would work just as well in a few chapters time as it does now, but I'm trying to type the letters out in the order I wrote them, and the letters mirrors the chapters in case you hadn't already noticed. 
> 
> Warnings for douchebags being punched in the face. 
> 
> Please enjoy xxx

_23 rd Septembre 1831_

_My dearest E,_

_I fought a man for you today, though you will never know. He mocked you, and your cause. I care not for your cause, it is true, but to hear him speak of you in such slanderous terms…I do not regret my actions, but he was made to regret his blasphemous words._

_Hearing you speak tonight, as I sat in the back with my bottle and cynicism, and knowing that you were ignorant of my devotion was equal parts pain and selfish pleasure._

_If you did know, I wonder if you would be angry with me. I would expect you to be. Who would want a good-for-nothing fool defending their honour, and their cause? And yet I cannot help but hope – that ever-stubborn creation that even the worst things Olympus could conjure could not destroy – hope that you would be pleased with me, though you, ever noble warrior, would believe that I defended your cause and not you. Would that I had the faith in people you do._

_I do not and do not think I ever shall, and if you had seen the things that I have seen, you would not either._

_I pray you never do._

_Eternally yours,_

_R_

               

**16 th October 2011**

**London, England**

Grantaire runs his thumb ever so gently over the original letter.

The paper has softened further over the years, crumbling a little at the edges. He’s well aware that the things belong in a museum, not on the desk of an eighteen-year-old university student. They deserve proper preservation and display somewhere they can be immortalised.

He supposes it’s the combination of his own nickname – “R” – and the desperate pining that mirrors his own so exactly that keeps him holding on to them like he does. He may carry only typed up copies with him, but the originals remind him it was all real.

R lies back on his duvet, watching the clear Saturday afternoon sky through the skylight above his head. _Sometimes it’s nice to know that you aren’t alone._

His head is still pounding, having once again over-indulged the night before. He’s always promising himself that one of these days he’ll start paying attention to his limits (and his bank account) but, as always, getting blind drunk and stepping out of his own head for a night or two and using hair-of-the-dog as a hangover cure wins every time.

It’s some comfort to know that the R of 1831 had the same issue.

His E’s eyes must have looked at him in the same way as Enjolras’ has the other night. Angry, annoyed…maybe slightly disappointed.

He won’t want him back now. He’ll probably never want to look at him again. The one good thing he had the chance to have in his life, and he fucked it up. Hence the getting blind drunk. R learnt a long time ago that drinking only masks the problem, never cures it, but it’s still his comfort blanket.

His ringtone makes him jump. It’s Jehan.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Have you just woken up? You sound a bit strange.”

“Not really. Ringtone made me jump, that’s all.”

“It’s not still that MSI song you love so much is it?”

“Shut up, it’s an outlet. Anyway, how are you doing? Get back okay last night?”

“Stop being such a mother hen, I was fine. Courfeyrac lives in the same halls as me, he walked me back.”

“I’m only asking, because you were that nervous about walking into a room full of like-minded strangers…”

“Your concern is touching. They’re all lovely people, really. I think you’d get on really well with Éponine.”

“The girl with the American twang, right?”

“She’s French-Canadian actually. I made that mistake as well; she looked at me like she wanted to eat me alive.”

Grantaire laughs.

“Anyway,” Jehan continues. “I didn’t call you to talk about me. I wanted to ask if you were okay.”

“How do you mean?”

“You and your activist crush – Enjolras – were going at it pretty heavily last night.”

Grantaire sighs heavily. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Jehan.”

The French boy is quiet for a moment.

“Ice cream and Studio Ghibli?”

“…Prouvaire, you are a literal saint.”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

-x-

Grantaire’s Monday lectures start at ten, but he’s not allowed to sleep in, one of the downsides of living at home while at uni.

It’s a typical autumn day in London, which means it’s tipping it down with rain. Grantaire holds his hood over his head as he sprints out from under the overhang of the tube station and towards campus. He ducks into the Student’s Union building and into the little café, full over equally bedraggled students looking to get out of the inclement weather.

He buys himself a strong black coffee to kick himself properly into life, and promptly almost drops it as a hand claps him on the back. “R, am I right?”

He turns. “Oh. Hey…Bahorel, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the one . Sorry, did I make you spill any?”

Grantaire checks his cup. “Nope, you’re fine. Tastes more like caffeinated water anyway.”

The bruiser of a young man laughs. “Couldn’t agree more, my friend.”

Grantaire smiles with him.

“Have you got a lecture now?”

“No, just got out of one. I’m supposed to be meeting Feuilly here in ten minutes – you’re welcome to join.”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. Lecture.”

“Oh well. Oh, by the way – congratulations.”

Grantaire trys to remember if/why he deserves congratulations for a minute or two. His brain comes up blank.

“Erm…thanks? What?”

“You are the first person I’ve met since we formed our little club who’s gone up against Enjolras and not only survived in one piece but rendered him pretty much speechless for the rest of the evening.”

“…that’s a good thing?”

“It was certainly an entertaining thing. So – well done. You are officially a member of the Epic People I Need In My Life club.”

Grantaire cracks up. “Cheers, man.”

“No problem. Coming back Friday?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think he – Enjolras – might blow his top if I did.”

“Now that would be entertaining.” Bahorel grins widely, and then sobers. “Look, he’s a decent guy. He means every word he says, except those said in anger.”

“That wasn’t anger, that was…I don’t know, righteous fury working up to an all-out tantrum.”

“He’s not used to having people who challenge him. The Devils’ Advocate may be just what he needs.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Bossuet said that, didn’t he?”

Bahorel curses. “Shit. How did you know?”

“I’m a good judge of character.”

“It isn’t just us. Half the group want to see you back.”

“Just not him.”

Bahorel winks. “He doesn’t own you, and he certainly doesn’t get last veto.”

Grantaire ponders that for a moment. Then he catches sight of the clock behind the counter. 9:58.

“Shit! Oh shitting fuck, gotta run or I’ll be late! Catch up later, yeah?”

“Sure thing. See you Friday!”

“Hmph…” Grantaire hums to himself as he runs out into the pelting rain again.

-x-

Two hours later he dumps his bags by a seat in the library and pulls out his notepad. Something flutters to the ground.

“Crap.”

He bends to retrieve it, but the guy two seats down has already snagged it.

“This yours?” he asks under his breath.

“Yeah, thanks.” Grantaire reaches out to take it and stuff it back into his bag. When he looks up again, the other boy is giving him a weird look.

“What?”

“Didn’t have you pegged as the type.”

Then Grantaire realises what the paper was – the flyer for Friends of the ABC that Courfeyrac had given him last Thursday.

“You’re not seriously into that stuff, are you?” his new friend asks.

Grantaire bristles a little. “Define ‘stuff.’”

“That activism bullshit. Bunch of twats out to ‘change the world.’”

“I take it you’re not.”

“Nah, mate. They just want their names in the history books, like that Mandela bloke.”

Grantaire turns a hard expression on him. The youth’s face is guilless, with a toothy grin.

“How do you know? Have you met any of them? Do you know what they stand for? Because until you do, I doubt that you have the right to pass any sort of judgement.”

“I know the chap who runs it is French with some pretentious last name because he won’t use his first for some bullshit reason. Looks like a girl, probably a fag, kinda tells me all I need to know...”

Grantaire doesn’t really know what possesses him at that point because the next thing he knows there is a dull ache in his knuckles,  the guy is on the floor with blood dripping out of his nose and somebody has an arm around his chest, holding him back.

“You take that back,” he snarls. “He is ten times the person you are and will ever be.” Hot anger boils in his muscles and blood vessels. Something in his brain is telling him to _shut the fuck up R, you’ve met Enjolras all of one time and he hated you, you don’t owe him this_ , but the rest of his brain is telling him to shut the other guy’s mouth rather than his own. The punch seems to have had the desired effect.

“If I hear you say one more word against him, I will break more than your face. You don’t know them, and you have no right to say a damn word about any of them, got me? _Any of them…_ ”

-x-

“…and so, that was how I got myself banned from the library halfway through semester one,” R finishes, taking a swig of his beer.

Feuilly and Bahorel both throw back their heads and laugh. Jehan just shakes his head and puts it in his hands like he’s given up. “Oh, R. What are we going to do with you?”

“Abandon me in despair?”

“Never!”

The warm pub absorbs their laughter.

“You’d better be back on Friday, R,” Feuilly warns. “We’ll set Éponine on you if you aren’t there.”

“…is that a threat?”

“You’d better believe it.”

“…alright, maybe. No promises. Lot of work on, you know.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow, but declines to comment. Jehan is not so subtle, though he does at least wait until they’re walking back towards Jehan’s halls of residence before he speaks.

“R, you have nothing on. You don’t get your end of year essays for another week.”

“Prouvaire, he hates me. I’ve already made an arse out of myself in front of him once. I may be an idiot, but I’m not that much of a masochist.”

“Bullshit, R. You punched out a guy you don’t even know because he accused Enjolras of being gay in most homophobic way possible and called his cause pointless. To me, that says more than excuses. You know you’re going back.”

Grantaire hates every single one of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so fucking tired. Hope you enjoyed that xxx

**Author's Note:**

> FYI - Petite oie = little goose. I have a need for big brother!E, okay?
> 
> In my head 1831!R calls Enjolras Aphrodite because fuck your gender norms. 
> 
> Excuse my probably crappy French grammar, it's been too long since I last spoke it properly. 
> 
> There's a complex web of association between families here, kinda has to be. Bear with me, there is method in the madness.


End file.
